


Called to the Dance

by Measured_Words



Category: Witch Hunt - Jack Off Jill (Song)
Genre: Circus, Fire, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Witchcraft, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-05 00:19:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1798615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Measured_Words/pseuds/Measured_Words
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You might have been the best of us, the most powerful.</p><p>But you tried to put yourself above us.  Above me.  You said we were nothing.</p><p>You were wrong, but you can save your tears for the flames.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Called to the Dance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tristesses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/gifts).



> I had very helpful betas, and I am very grateful to {M} and {ST}! Any errors or sources of confusion that remain are all my fault /o\
> 
> Lyrics included in the story of course belong to Jack Off Jill!

I called the Carnival here, yes.

Are you scared now? Do you know what it's like to be nothing? To have everything you are erased by just one word?

_Witch._

Isn't that what you wanted? Well, not for yourself of course.

If you'd known the summoning words, you'd have said them first. 

_Witch hunt witch cunt burn this girl..._

It seems you were right – there could only be one of us here. You tried to make me your thrall. You never expected me to fight back. You never thought I would have the strength, the gall.

You're far more powerful than me, there's no question of that. You had such plans. And you paid no mind to history. Well, my family is very old. Traditional. Outdated is what you said. We've held on to old ways, to darkness and secrets and fire, while the world has moved on to brightness, chrome and neon. Everything now, no time for patience.

No time for respect.

The older world – my world – lives on under the skin of your bright and shining future, and it remembers fire. It remembers what witches were. It remembers to be afraid of us, even the ones who aren't so powerful, who seem weak and easily cowed.

It remembers that all witches are made of iron. And that if you stoke your fire hot enough, even iron will melt.

The Carnival is part of the old world: its lights only seem bright in the darkness. Its shrouded shapes slip through the mists, its rides spin out their tinny tunes, and I dance.

I dance on your grave. You're in there, waiting, while they stoke the fire. Is it hard to breathe? You might suffocate, it's true, but they'll burn you all the same. My grandmother told me a story about one Carnival where they thought the witch was dead. They tied her to the stake in the center ring, and when they lit the fire she woke up screaming. Can you imagine that? Smothered in the dark, the cold earth pressing in around your narrow pine box, falling asleep as the air becomes too poisoned to breathe... Waking up to pain and flame and smoke as you become ash, and nothingness.

All for being different.

The carnival workers are outsiders like us. My grandmother didn't know where they came from, if they were already ghosts or just became them, but she had heard stories. My favourite is the one that says they are all people murdered for being different, all kinds of different, killed for not fitting in. I'm sure you can imagine, in the old world, how easy that would be. It happens even today. I like it because it sounds like it could be true.

There's always someone you can pin your troubles on, isn't there?

In this story, there was one man who brought all the ghosts together: the ringmaster. Can’t you just imagine how he would look? A red satin-lined tailcoat and top hat – a tall white man with slicked dark hair and a curling moustache. His mother was a witch, but he got none of the power, and he blamed her for all his troubles. Then, after she died, he blamed all witches. That hate became who he was in death, and now he and his circus come when called to put us to the fire. I like that story, even if it isn't true.

How surprised were you when they came for you? How did they do it? Drag you screaming from your bed, or your books – no not books, not for you. Your fancy machines, maybe, but not books. You never liked the weight of words in your hands, it was too fixed. You laughed at me, but some words need to be pinned down. They have power, and the process of inscription constrains them. 

Maybe it was too easy for you to make the world into what you wanted. You never had to pay attention, to learn these things. You never believed the rules applied to you.

I paid attention. I listened to my mother, to my grandmother. They're gone now, and all I had left was you, with your too-easy power, your imperiousness, your disregard for tradition. Maybe the witching world is changing, like you said. Maybe the skin really is getting thicker, calloused, until what lies beneath will no longer be able to break through. And maybe we do need someone to guide us forward, to help us see what lies in front of us. But whoever takes our hands to bring us into the light that waits, it won't be you. You're no queen, no saviour.

The music is getting more frantic now; the rides are spinning faster and faster, whirling like dervishes. The freaks with their shovels are coming to dig you up. They cut down the old oak tree – chopped it into kindling. It's all piled up in the big top. I can hear the showmen calling out, crying for all to come and see. One night only. 

_With only one match! One chance to burn! Only one!_

The dead are crawling from their graves, lumbering towards their seats. Free admittance for ghosts. Maybe some will stay with the Carnival. This town has always been a cruel place, for all that you called it quaint. 

I want to stay and watch, but I am still a witch, and it isn't safe. I imagine you staring out into the crowd, your gaze fixing on the only other living soul, raising an accusing finger as the flames lick up your dress, along your sleeve, your contorted mouth screaming "YOU!" 

You'd like that, I'm sure, but it is time for me to go. I'll come back later, when the tents have all faded away, gone to whoever calls them next. I'll dance with you, then –  


_Dead girls dance they burn and twirl..._

And you can be the queen, if you still like – queen of ash, queen of air and darkness, queen of nothing.

Well, Your Majesty, how do you like your kingdom?


End file.
